


A Taste of Madness

by unsettled



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: Bloodplay, Eyes, Horror, M/M, Madness, PWP, Painplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So how did Stayne lose his eye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Madness

He'd seen Tarrant at court, had been dazzled by the flame of hair under that distinctive hat, and had wondered a bit at him, standing out against all these pale creatures. He hadn't realized at the time that Tarrant was just as intrigued by his long limbs and dark eyes and pale skin.

Now, Tarrant has him tied down, spread naked across the white sheets, and is taking his sweet time exploring the lay of him. Their skin is almost a match for each others', made luminous by the sheer starkness of the room. Ilosovic thinks he must look like a spatter of ink against this colorless expanse, but Tarrant looks like fire, and feels like fire, and he thinks he will burn up if he does not get more. Tarrant seems fascinated by his hipbones, but there is not where Ilosovic wants his attention focused; he shifts, arms tightening above his head, and oh, Tarrant has been most successfully redirected.

His mouth is made for this, Ilosovic thinks, and then he is not thinking anything at all, because he is using everything he has to just keep breathing, gasping in air, because it would be a terrible shame to pass out just because Tarrant is exceptionally skilled; but he's beginning to lose hold of consciousness by the time his body arches under Tarrant's clever, clever hands, hands that are catching him, are steadying him, are stopping him from falling completely into oblivion.

He is utterly limp, nothing more than an arrangement of stretched bones when Tarrant presses insistent fingers into him. Somewhere he finds the will to move, to shift, to slide his legs further apart, an open invitation that Tarrant is quick to accept. He thinks he will be lost in this sensation as well, when a flick of pain draws him back; Tarrant has opened a line of blood down his ribs, a trickle of blood following the slide of one of those wicked little daggers he is never without. Ilosovic stares at the man above him, but whatever protest he might have spoken is snatched away by another feather brush of pain, and he cannot quite believe how turned on he is by it. He gasps as Tarrant finds the proper angle, sliding across that spot at the same instant he open another bloodied mark, and Ilosovic didn't think he would be coming again anytime soon; but he was wrong.

Tarrant shudders against him, and his arms give out. Ilosovic would like to bring his arms down and hold him, explore the knobs of his spine, the flush of his nipples, but he remains helpless. They share a moment of shuddering breaths before Tarrant props himself up on his elbows to study him, smiling. His hands come up, framing Ilosovic's face, smoothing across his lips, his nose, his eyelid, like they are learning the shape of him. Ilosovic smiles back, uncertain at Tarrant's intense observation. "What?" he whispers.

"Hush," Tarrant replies, absently, and one hand curves to cup his cheek while the other reaches across the bed to where Ilosovic cannot see, and returns with a pin, long and wicked, stolen from his ever present hat. Ilosovic tenses, a question forming on his lips, and Tarrant buries the metal in his eye. Ilosovic screams and thrashes convulsively, trapped on all sides; the ropes are fire against his wrists, and Tarrant's weight is stone on his chest. He kicks wildly and cries out again, struck wordless by the pain, and Tarrant silences him with his mouth. His whole eye is blurred with tears, and the other stings and burns at the salty liquid, sight distorted and twisted. He stops screaming, sobs choking him; Tarrant pulls away and tilts his head, studying him before he plucks the hatpin from Ilosovic's useless eye. Ilosovic gasps and moans at the sharp tug of pain, and Tarrant rises off him in one smooth motion, hardly sparing him a glance as he dresses and departs.

It is hours before Ilosovic manages to free himself, wrists raw and shoulders aching, and nothing will overwhelm the pain boring into his brain. The blood will wash off, the wounds will heal, but the eye is a complete loss. It is his first taste of Hatter's madness, and despite the bitterness in his mouth, he cannot help wanting more.


End file.
